“You started it,” I say.
“Youstarted it,” he says.
Oh my god. We sound like children. We sound like actual children on a playground arguing over who pushed who first. I’m a grown woman with two journalism awards and I’m standing here having a “nuh-uh, you did it first” argument with my high school nemesis in front of his very confused fighter. And yet I cannot seem to stop myself.
“You just couldn’t stand the idea of losing to me,” I sneer.
“Right back at you,sweetheart,” he says, the word dripping with condescension.
“Don’t youdarecall me that.”
He tilts his head, a dangerous glint in his eye. “Why not?”
God, he’s infuriating. And the worst part is, some irritating, unwelcome part of me is enjoying this. The back and forth, the sparring, the way he matches me beat for beat.
“Because I’m not eighteen anymore,” I say, keeping my voice steady with effort, “and neither are you, so maybe try acting like an adult.”
He shakes his head, and for just a second I swear I see the corner of his mouth twitch, like some part of him is enjoying this just as much as I am. “You’re unbelievable. You know that?”
“So I’ve been told,” I say, lifting my chin. “Usually by men who can’t handle being challenged.”
His eyes flash. “I can handle being challenged just fine.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
We’re inches apart now, both breathing hard, and I’m suddenly very aware that half the gym has stopped pretending to work out. I can see Roman in my peripheral vision, still inchingtoward the heavy bags like he’s trying to escape a hostage situation without drawing attention to himself.
And then, suddenly, I become aware of how good Dominic smells. Clean and warm and maddeningly familiar, like stepping into a memory I’ve spent two decades trying to forget.
He runs a hand through his hair and puts distance between us. The gym noises rush back in and I can finally breathe again.
“We’re done for today,” he says, his voice controlled again. “Come back tomorrow if you want. But right now you need to leave.”
“Fine,” I say, grabbing my bag from where I dropped it. “I’ll be back.”
I turn and walk toward the exit, keeping my spine straight and my head high even though I can feel every single pair of eyes in this gym following me out. Sarah catches my eye as I pass through the lobby, one eyebrow raised in a silent question that I absolutely do not have the bandwidth to address right now, and I manage a wave before I push through the front doors.
My car is where I left it, and I climb in and shut the door and sit there with the engine running. I press my forehead against the steering wheel and let out a groan.
What thehellwas that?
I pull out of the parking lot and head back toward my hotel, replaying the conversation in my head. His smug face and his condescending tone. The way he saidsweetheartlike he knew exactly what it would do to me. He’s theworst. He’s absolutely the worst.
But I’m almost looking forward to going back.
CHAPTER 3
Dominic
The footage from Roman’s last sparring session has been playing on my laptop for the better part of an hour, and I’ve absorbed maybe half of it. The other half of my attention keeps drifting back to yesterday, running through every moment I let Brooke get under my skin.
I’m a grown man with a successful business. I have a fighter three weeks out from the biggest match of his career. And yesterday I stood in the middle of my own gym and argued about who started it like a teenager with a bruised ego while half my morning clients watched.
Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. And she has a lot of fucking nerve, acting like I’m the one who ruined her life whenshe’sthe one who destroyed mine.
I rub my hands over my face and focus back to the screen, forcing myself to actually watch. There’s a pattern I’ve been tracking in Roman’s footwork, a slight drop on his left side when he gets winded.
It’s barely perceptible, the kind of thing most coaches would miss entirely, but his opponent in New York won’t miss it. Victor Herrera has made a career out of exploiting exactly these kinds of micro-mistakes. One dropped shoulder, one lazy guard, and Roman’s eating canvas while eighteen thousand people watch.
